


alluring, bright, and swift

by hailingstars



Series: a little recourse [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blackmail, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Dark Peter Parker, Gen, Homeless Peter Parker, Mind Control, Peter Parker has the Venom Symbiote, Peter Parker is a Mess, Rated T for language, Thief Peter Parker, and nothing else, just a shade, not Tony or peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28761231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailingstars/pseuds/hailingstars
Summary: He took one solid step forward. His legs advanced automatically, without a clear signal from his brain, only for his torso to bump against Iron Man’s outstretched arm.“Yeah, no,” said Iron Man. “We don’t typically go near alien parasites wearing nothing but spandex, tyke.”“Tyke?” The outrage of the nickname snapped Peter out from his trance.“Yep,” he quipped. “I’ve got a bet going with Barton. About your age. My guess is not a day older than thirteen, by the sound of your squeaky voice.”“Don’t call me tyke,” said Peter. “And my voice doesn’t squeak.”“It just did, Tiger,” he said. Peter glared, and Stark raised an eyebrow as he continued. “Sport? Champ?”ORPeter is homeless, and does what he can to survive, which means occasionally working for Adrian Toomes and avoiding Iron Man and the Avengers, who seem to be obsessed with discovering Spider-Man's true identity.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Adrian Toomes, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Toomes' Crew
Series: a little recourse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108679
Comments: 78
Kudos: 314





	1. it's fine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hailingstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailingstars/gifts).



> hey hey welcome to my new fic 
> 
> 1) if it looks familiar because this is technically a rewrite of a homeless series I started a long time ago, but never finished. Pretty much nothing is the same with the exception of Peter working for Toomes 
> 
> 2) this is completely AU, as in, I don't have to follow canon rules :) 
> 
> 3) please enjooyyyyyy 
> 
> 4) TW: child abuse (in later chapters, I will put up the warning on the ones it applies to in the notes, before the chapter starts)
> 
> 5) thank you to frostysunflowers for putting up with me talking about this fic for what feels like forever, and for reading it over for me <3 you're a genius, and the absolute greatest 
> 
> ok that's over please enjoy, or not enjoy, whatever this one is really for me (... I hope you do enjoy it, though)

An orange strike of fire blazed against the clear, blue sky. It fell fast and graceful, and as it got closer to colliding with the New York City skyline, Peter noticed hues of black and grey. 

He marveled at its beauty, though he knew that was the way all dangerous descents began, alluring, bright, and swift. 

Dread flared and pumped through his veins. It shook his body, threatening to cause him to miss a web, drop from the air and splatter on the concrete below. He pushed back the feeling, or tried to, tried to ignore the way his perception screamed.

Aliens and their toys plummeting down from the heavens shouldn’t be so distressing. It was common, or at least it was now, after Loki had brought his army down and changed the way New Yorkers saw the world. It wouldn’t be so distressing, if it weren’t for the memories of that first day, when Peter had lost his entire family, his home. 

He supposed that was the reason he couldn’t calm the apprehension that trembled through his body. The memories and the echoes of screams, like always, were what compelled him to stop traveling via web, building to building, and perch himself on the side of a Queens apartment building tall enough to have an excellent view.

“It’s a sight, isn’t it?” 

Peter turned his head and locked eyes with Iron Man who hovered a few feet away. The sight of him dampened the anxiety thumping his heart around, but he gripped the bricks of the building he clung to tighter. His spider-side didn’t see the threat of Iron Man.

Peter Parker was the one who had the problem.

“It’s kind of pretty, you know, before it crashes and it scorches a crater into the middle of earth,” said Iron Man. “Care to give us an assist? Or, uh, a web?” 

Peter checked the watch he kept locked around his wrist, pushed up against his web-shooter. There wasn’t enough time. There was _never_ enough time. He was almost late, but definitely late if he got caught up in one of Iron Man’s games. 

Peter spared another glance at the falling spacecraft. Too late for that, too. 

“We’ll never make it on time.” 

“Yeah, no shit.”

He gripped the bricks a little bit tighter, and he could feel the building threatening to crumble behind his fingertips. Peter understood why Toomes didn’t like guys like Iron Man. Tony Stark. The billionaire flying around in his magic suit, as if he needed to remind the city how far above them he was.

“I’ve already got receivers in the endzone,” he told him. He tapped a few buttons on his suit, and a projection appeared in the air above his arm. “There’s more debris incoming. Headed towards… well, here.” 

The projection showed exactly what he’d explained. Three separate pieces of space junk, entering the atmosphere, and threatening the people of Queens. Something Spider-Man could never allow, no matter how late it’d make Peter Parker for his day job, or how badly he wanted to tell Iron Man to find a different monkey. 

“I’m on it.” 

Iron Man flew away without another order, and Peter, with a sorrowful look at his wristwatch and dread knotting his stomach, prepared to web up some space rubble. 

*

A string of webs covered the last chunk of falling space metal, breaking it’s momentum and rendering it ready for Peter to pluck from the air as he swung over the street. 

Below him, people cheered and Peter grinned under his mask. He saluted them while he was in midair, before landing on a rooftop and adding the last piece of alien metal to a bag he’d fashioned from his webs. 

He checked his watch. 

Now he was definitely late, but still, he contemplated, wondered if there were degrees of lateness, if now that he was already doomed to a lecture, he might as well make it worthwhile. It wasn’t everyday he’d get the shot to see a crashed alien spacecraft, or have a chance at swiping some of it tech. 

On his way to the crash site, Peter stopped by his favorite dumpster, located in an alley between two buildings smashed up together so close, sometimes he wondered how it was possible to breathe. It was claustrophobic, but secluded, and therefore the perfect place for hiding things Peter didn’t want to be found. 

He ditched his web-bag carrying the space metal, next to the Jansport he’d left there earlier. He covered them both with garbage bags, shut the lid and lifted his wrist towards the sky, swinging himself off towards his destination. 

SHIELD were already there, collecting material from the smoking, beat up ship when Peter landed next to Iron Man. So much for looting any tech. Impossible with that many uniforms around.

“Thanks for your assistance, web-head,” said Iron Man. His faceplate dissolved, and it revealed the face of Tony Stark. “Nice work.” 

“Thanks,” said Peter, amazed by the nanotech, but refusing to acknowledge it out loud. 

It was infuriating, in a strange way, to admire Stark’s work, but to resent him too much to take notes for his own inventions. There were all kinds of reasons to be annoyed about both Iron Man and Tony Stark, though none were more frustrating than the man’s constant attempts to coerce him into unmasking, to obtain his true identity. 

Stark’s ploys, his removing his faceplate every time they spoke as if he expected Peter to return the favor, were incredibly transparent, so much so Peter doubted he was trying to hide that his intentions were to get the bottom of Spider-Man’s name. 

Peter focused on the reason he came, the spaceship wreckage, except there wasn’t much of it to see. Just an ordinary looking ship, like a broken prop from a bad movie. Dented. Smoking rising out from what Peter assumed had been the engine. 

“Where’s the pilot?” asked Peter. Looking around, he only saw a few scattered Avengers and SHIELD agents milling about. Nothing, or no one, foreign. 

“If there was one,” said Stark. “They’re long gone by now.” 

Peter narrowed his eyes towards the ground, near the damaged door of the spacecraft, where a black puddle of goo foamed and bubbled. 

“I think,” said Peter. “I think that stuff’s alive.” 

His spidey senses buzzed, sent the hair on his arms straight up, and signaled something electric and chilling and briefly beautiful. 

_And dangerous_

Still, he couldn’t look away. 

“And you’d be right,” said Stark. “According to my scans, it’s some kind of alien parasite. Gonna take it back to the tower. Have my team run some tests.” 

Peter hated that idea. 

He was entranced, mesmerized by that slime, and he felt agonized by the thought of it being locked up in some lab, with the barrier of Avengers-level security between him and it. 

He took one solid step forward. His legs advanced automatically, without a clear signal from his brain, only for his torso to bump against Iron Man’s outstretched arm. 

“Yeah, no,” said Iron Man. “We don’t typically go near alien parasites wearing nothing but spandex, tyke.” 

“Tyke?” The outrage of the nickname snapped Peter out from his trance. 

“Yep,” he quipped. “I’ve got a bet going with Barton. About your age. My guess is not a day older than thirteen, by the sound of your squeaky voice.” 

“Don’t call me tyke,” said Peter. “And my voice doesn’t squeak.” 

“It just did, Tiger,” he said. Peter glared, and Stark raised an eyebrow as he continued. “Sport? Champ?” 

“Are you done?”

“Padawan?” he asked. “The nicknames will stop when you tell me how old you really are, and if I’m wrong, you should lie. I really need to win this bet. For my marole.” 

“Already told you. I’m twenty-one.”

“And I told you, that’s bullshit.” 

Peter let go of a long breath, and wondered when and if all the questioning would come to a halt. Along with trying to figure out his name, Tony Stark hit him with a new onslaught of harassment every time they met. 

“How did you become part spider?” He’d asked, while Peter helped the Avengers rid of the city of a lizard man. The time before that, he’d asked, “Does your mother know you’re out here doing flips in a onesie?” 

Technically, Stark was correct. 

Peter lied about his age, but he had his reasons. Good ones, if you asked him, but nobody ever did. He doubted Tony Stark and the Avengers would leave him alone if they knew he was only seventeen, even if he was only seventeen for just one more day. 

“Believe whatever, man.”

“Yeah, saying whatever definitely helps your case. At least learn the old man lingo if you want to pass as one. I’m sure Cap can help you out.”

“As much fun as that sounds,” said Peter. “I gotta go, things to do and -” 

“Hey, hold it.” 

Peter’s head snapped to the side, and he saw Black Widow marching across the crash site straight towards them. His feet were glued to the ground by her stare, though if it were up to him, he’d be long gone. 

“Where’s the debris?” she asked him, getting straight to the point. 

“The what?”

“The flying pieces of discarded alien spacecraft you were sent to fetch,” Black Widow’s tone contained zero patience and a whole lot of suspicion and Peter wasn’t thrilled about how that tallied for his chances of walking away for this.

“Oh,” said Peter, happy to at least have his mask to hide his face, even if it could only muffle the edge of distress in his voice. “Dumped it in the Hudson.” 

“You dumped highly classified alien material in the Hudson?” She didn’t blink, didn’t look away, didn’t show any indication of doing so. 

“Just looked like regular scrap metal to me,” said Peter with a shrug. He turned and gave Stark a pointed look. “I didn’t know what else I was supposed to do with it. Nobody told me anything.” 

Black Widow stared him down, dead eyes set in a way that tempted Peter to shuffle his feet or fidget with his fingers or do _something_ to give an outlet to his nervousness. 

Iron Man’s claw gripped Peter’s shoulder, and for a split second, he freaked. Tensed. Thought about all the ways that this was the end of him and his life as he knew it, but then the moment passed, and he realized that the gesture was meant to be friendly. 

“Next time, kid,” he told him. “We’re trying to keep this stuff off the streets. There’s been reports about weapons combining our tech with alien materials.” 

“Oh, uh, yeah, that’s not good.” 

“No, it really isn’t,” said Black Widow. “Some of that stuff is really dangerous. Especially in the wrong hands.” 

Peter zoned back in on the black goo. A team of SHIELD agents collected it from the dirt with metal tongs and placed it inside a glass container. They were right to be using tongs. Peter knew it. Just didn’t know _how_ he knew it. 

Stark released his grip on him with a playful shove. “We owe you one, Spidey. How about it? Lunch at Avengers Tower?” 

“No thanks,” said Peter. “Really busy.”

“Doing what?” asked Stark, with a laugh. “Rescuing some kittens from a tree?” 

“That isn’t all I do.” 

“No,” said Black Widow. “I know it isn’t.” 

She turned and walked away, rejoining the SHIELD agents, while Peter freaked out for the second time in the span of minutes. 

_Not cool, extremely not cool_

“I should… I should get going,” said Peter, and he ducked out before Stark or any other Avenger or SHIELD agent could stop him, corner him, ask him more questions. 

He shot his web shooters towards the sky, and flung himself away from the crash site. His mind drifted far from his worries about Black Widow and his annoyance at Tony Stark, and back to thoughts about the space slime. 

Peter wanted that muck, all while knowing it was the worst kind of wanting. Something that crept and clawed and occupied a space in his mind without giving him a good reason why it should be there. Sort of menacing, but he wanted it, anyway. 

*

If there _were_ varying degrees of lateness, Peter would be at the very end of the spectrum, in the dark red, in the screeching, high pitched, hands over ears, alert zone that he labeled: extremely fucked. 

He knew without stealing a glance at his watch. 

He knew when he landed with grace next to his favorite dumpster, opened the lid and moved the trash he’d used as a cover to reveal that his web-bag had dissolved, leaving three pieces of space metal uncontained.

“Shit,” he muttered, even as he grabbed the strap to only his Jansport, and left his prizes behind. 

Too risky to take them on a run, and not enough time to take them back to the Spidey lair, which presented an additional problem that needed solving. 

Peter zipped open the Jansport and looked at the five Toomes branded blasters nestled inside, along with his street clothes. He decided quickly, on impulse, because what other choice did he have? 

He took a gun from his bag, put it under the space metal, and shut the dumpster lid. 

It’d be fine. Completely fine. 

The guns had stayed hidden all day, which had also been a risk, and not entirely his choice, having been needed as Spidey and having had to ditch them even before Stark gave him a different mission. 

And so, this time at least, he would ignore procedure, thanks to the ticking clock, and his commitment to honoring what he’d named the Parker tax. 

It was a necessary danger, as Toomes didn’t pay Peter nearly enough to risk his reputation and his freedom to act as his personal weapons mule. Might as well get something decent for his trouble. Something he could disassemble later to create something worthwhile. 

Normally he’d stash his stolen cut of the weapons at his lair, an abandoned apartment building on the edge of Queens, but his dumpster would have to hold out for a little while longer. No matter how much he didn’t like the risk of his treasure being found.

It’s fine, he reminded himself. _It had to be fine._

He ripped his mask off, slipped a hoodie over his Spidey suit, and pulled on baggy sweatpants and some beat up tennis shoes. 

_It’s fine._

*

He met the buyer on a street of abandoned houses, townhomes with boarded up windows and porches with chipped stones. Peter liked to imagine that once it had been a road with something more than rotted shells that only still stood to witness shifty deals made by shifty people. 

The man waiting for him was scruffy, wearing an oversized yellow hoodie, and sat in the back of a white van with the backdoor propped open. He stood up and hovered his hand near the holster on his belt. 

“You’re Toomes’ guy?” 

Peter dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand, annoyed at the label. “I prefer the term independent contractor.” 

“Fuck, kid, you ain’t delivering pizzas,” said the man. “And you’d be lousy at it if you were. Where the hell have you been?” 

“Got caught up,” said Peter. He shrugged and flashed a rueful grin. “You know how it is, man.” 

He nodded that he did understand, and the previous animosity dissipated. It was Peter’s second superpower, though he never really comprehended how he wielded it, this instant likability he’d be dead without. 

“I got your stuff, though,” said Peter, shrugging his bag from his shoulder and letting it rest on the floor bed of the van. He took the four remaining blasters and lined them up for him to inspect. 

He didn’t touch them. Just gave Peter an incredulous look. 

“Thought the price was for five of these?” 

“Nah, I mean, I dunno know,” said Peter. “I’m just the delivery guy.” 

The guy nodded at him a second time and put his attention back on the blasters. Nobody ever really wanted to make a fuss with him about the missing product, and Peter counted on clients wanting to maintain a low profile. 

It was the same with this buyer. He didn’t press. They never did.

Instead he handed Peter the cash and, after counting and concluding that it was all there, he flashed the guy another grin, grabbed his empty bag and left, before he got the chance to ask again about the missing blaster gun. 

*

The lettering above the front door to the warehouse was badly worn.

It read, or used to read: Bestman Salvage. 

Peter saw it as fitting. A living piece of history declared everyone was just one life’s tragedy away from abandoning honest pursuits to become a villain, or a hero, and oftentimes, as Peter walked under those peeling, rotting words, he wondered which of those categories he fit into, or if depended on whether or not he was wearing his mask. 

His complicity weighed heavy some days, becoming more and more hefty the older he got, the more his patrols ended badly and out of his control. 

_I make up for it_ . He told himself, as he walked across the warehouse floor and spotted Toomes, sitting at his desk, counting a stack of money. _Spider-Man makes up for it._

Brice and Jackson drank beers and chatted in the far corner. They gave him a nod and a wave, but Peter didn’t acknowledge them. Once he’d counted those two as older brothers. At fourteen, they’d given him his first sip of beer, which he had poured out and tossed in the recycle bin. 

Now he avoided them. 

Peter did his job, collected his money, and tried not to think too much more about it. 

“You’re late,” said Toomes after Peter plopped a wad of cash on the desk. He grabbed the bills, counted them, and handed five twenties back.

“Only a hundred? That’s bullshit,” said Peter. “You said it’d be three.” 

“Would’ve been,” said Toomes. His voice was low and gravelly, and thoroughly pissed. “If you hadn’t been two hours late for the dropoff. You know I had a client contacting me through the burner, asking if I was for real.” 

“That wasn’t my fault,” said Peter. 

“Head that one before,” he said. “Whose fault was it this time?” 

“The aliens.” 

Toomes leaned back in his chair and titled his head. 

“In case you missed it,” said Peter. “There was a crash landing today. Avengers everywhere. What was I supposed to do?” 

“Your job,” said Toomes. “No offense, Pete, but you look like the least suspicious person. Completely harmless. Like a puppy. Really think Iron Man’s gonna fly down from his throne to question some kid with his school bag?” 

“I’m not a kid.”

“Tell your face.” 

All the things Peter wanted to say he couldn’t, couldn’t very well tell Toomes he was more of an Avengers-level threat than his entire illegal weapons operation. Divulging information to Toomes about his other identity would be just as damaging as letting Tony Stark see under his mask. 

“Some friendly advice, Pete,” said Toomes. He slid three more twenties across the table, and Peter swiped them before he could change his mind. “You might wanna consider quitting blaming your fuck-ups on other people. Personal responsibility and all that. Being late costs money. Don’t next time.” 

“Jeez, thanks,” said Peter. “Maybe save the lectures for Liz, though. How is she, by the way?” 

“That’s not funny.” He death-glared him, before his features softened. “And you’d have to tell me. She doesn’t take my calls anymore.” 

Something melancholy seeped into his voice, and the room grew near quiet. Not silent, like the world only was when Peter slipped on his headphones, but quiet. 

Brice and Jackson never did shut up, and Peter could hear them drunkenly complaining about nothing in particular. Over at the workstation, the man Toomes called the Tinkerer cursed as sparks flew, leaving Peter to believe whatever new invention he worked on wasn’t going well. 

Peter blinked and remembered the few times Toomes had invited him over for family dinner. They’d been happy, his family. And Toomes was different in his home. Softer, warmer, and it was the first time Peter had realized he wasn’t the only one who wore a mask, who had two completely separate identities. 

“Suppose it’s just her age,” said Toomes, breaking the strange sort of quiet. 

“Or maybe the caller ID,” said Peter, adding a grin and letting it be easily understood he was joking. “Come on, you know Liz. She’s probably just too busy studying and hanging out with her friends to answer her phone.” 

Toomes didn’t appear to believe him, but smiled anyway. “You’re right. She’s too popular, and way too smart to be my daughter.” 

Peter nodded, overly enthusiastic, but the truth was he didn’t know how Liz was doing anymore than her father. 

He thought about her, sometimes. 

Sometimes he hoped she wondered where her father really got the money to pay for her MIT tuition, and sometimes he hoped she didn’t think about it. That she was just off, away from New York, enjoying college, because someone as good and kind as her deserved at least the illusion of a guilt-free life. 

More sparks, and louder cursing filled the room. The glare shot at the workstation by Toomes was in complete agreement with Peter’s thoughts, so jumped at the opportunity. 

“Hey, uh, you know, I could start working with the tech.” 

Toomes sour expression shifted when he barked out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s a thought.” 

“I’m being serious,” said Peter. “I could do twice the amount -”

“-you’ve never even stepped foot inside a high school,” Toomes cut him off. “And now you wanna be an engineer?” 

“I dunno, maybe.”

“Look, Pete,” said Toomes. “I don’t mean anything by it, but the tech side of the business isn’t really your thing. I need you in the field. You’re good at that. When you’re on time.” 

“Yeah, sure,” said Peter. “Just call me when you’ve got something else?” 

“As long as you make it snappy next time.” 

Peter gave him a salute, before turning and exiting the warehouse, without another word and with a hang head.  
  


He kicked at stray pieces of gravel the whole walk back to his favorite dumpster, wishing there was something he could do to prove himself as a capable engineer, something that wouldn’t also clue in Toomes to the mountain of tech he’d stolen from him over the years. 

Peter took a breath, and shoved his disappointment aside.

He didn’t need Toomes to carry on with his own strange inventions. 

He had pieces of an alien spaceship, and he had his secret stash of stolen tech, the Parker tax to the rescue. 

With a sly smile, he opened the lid to the dumpster, only for his disappointment to hit him harder, for it to drop his stomach and turn his blood cold.

His dumpster, his trusted hiding place, was completely hollow. Empty. Not even a gum wrapper left inside. 

  
_Fuck_


	2. spidey hood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suggestions/implication of child abuse + brief and very mild vague mention of childhood sexual assault and predatory behavior (though it isn't what's really happening in the situation) both instances in the first scene

Outside the window, it was dark, all flickering street lights, working way too hard to shine brightly enough to keep the darkness from reigning. 

Inside, the lights were dim, and hidden behind dirty panels, casting an orangish glow over the laundry mat, and giving Peter a headache. Didn’t help that half the lightbulbs were missing, didn’t help that the room was sweaty and musty and suffocating, and Peter had already been having a hard time thinking straight. 

His quarter jammed in the coin slot, and Peter jabbed at it with his finger, willing it to disappear inside the machine, or at least come back out, so he could reclaim it and use it in another washer. 

He slammed his fist against the machine, which unsurprisingly, didn’t grant him his twenty-five cents back, but instead fixed it with a giant dent. He closed his eyes, pulled his shoulders back and stuck his head towards the ceiling, trying to get a good breath in, trying to let his misplaced frustration roll off him. 

“I think you broke it.” 

Peter straightened out, and turned on his heel, and saw the little kid to which the voice had belonged. He sat at the fold-up table, with a broken tablet propped in front of him, and next to a girl who looked a bit older, but not by much. She glared at Peter from behind the pages of a book.

“Uh, no I didn’t, it was like that when I got here,” said Peter, attempting to rewrite history, as he opened the lid to the washer and began fishing his still-dirty clothes from it, throwing them back into his basket. 

“No it wasn’t.” The girl that time. “You punched it, and it broke.” 

“Aren’t you two a little young to be here by yourselves?” asked Peter, shutting the lid to the broken washer and opening the lid to the one next to it. “This late at night?” 

The boy’s eyes went wide, and the girl shrugged, returned to her book. There was a mutual, unspoken understanding between the three of them. No snitching. 

Peter shoved his clothes into a better, working washer, while he briefly mourned the loss of his quarter, forever stuck. He felt that if he were going to chip away at his integrity for survival cash, it was a shame to lose it this way, to a faulty washer.

He added soap, put more quarters in, shut the lid, and started the wash. 

When he turned around, he saw the abandoned children still sitting at the table, looking just as miserable as Peter felt. It wasn’t hard to see why, and the clues made Peter flex his hand into a fist as he took his seat at the far end of the table, as far from the pair of kids as he could. 

“Umm, hey mister,” said the boy. He stared at Peter’s watch. There were light purple bruises around his neck, near his collar, and Peter wanted to ask about them. He never better to follow through. “What time is it?” 

“12:20,” he answered. 

“Really?” he asked, and Peter nodded his confirmation. “Then it’s my birthday, officially. I’m seven.” 

“ _ Colin,”  _ said the girl. “You can’t just tell him things like that. He’s a stranger.” 

“She’s right, you know,” said Peter. “Definitely shouldn’t talk to strangers.” 

The girl didn’t loosen her glare, and Peter liked her better for it. So she learned not to trust just anybody because they were adults, learned that she couldn’t trust just anyone milling about the laundry mat, punching washing machines. Good for her. 

“I’m Peter,” said Peter, as a way of attempting to set himself apart from strangers, or at least, the dangerous kind. “Happy birthday, Colin. Wanna hear something that’s really cool?”

“Umm, yeah,” said Colin, nodding his head. 

“It’s top secret though, so you have to promise not to tell anyone.” 

Colin continued bobbing his head up and down

“Today’s Spider-Man’s birthday, too.” 

“Really?” His face lit up, while his sister rolled her eyes and went back to reading her book, clearly bored by the topic of Spider-Man and her brother’s worship of him. 

“Yep.”

“That’s awesome!” Colin let his tablet fall on the table. “Did you hear, Callie? I have the same birthday as Spider-Man!” 

“So he says,” she muttered, and she flipped a page. 

“It’s a bummer, though, right?” asked Peter, noticing bruises on Callie as well, on her arms. “Having to do laundry on your birthday?”

“Not doing laundry,” said Colin, matter of factly. “We live just across the street, and Callie likes the sound of the machines. It’s just so -” Callie kicked him under the table, and he whined, but continued anyway, after shooting her a dirty look. “It’s just so loud in our house sometimes.” 

“Birthdays are supposed to be loud.” He continued to prod, continued to keep going somewhere he knew he didn’t need to be, involved in a problem without a solution. 

CPS was out of the equation. Peter remembered what happened to kids once they ended up in the system. 

“Yeah, well,” said Colin. “We’re not having a real party this year. Dad got fired, so there’s no money, and he gets reaallllyy angry about it-”

_ “Colin _ , seriously, remember when mom told you not to tell everyone about our business?” 

“What, Callie, he knows Spider-Man,” said Colin. “Maybe he can help.” 

“Stop believing everything people tell you,” said Callie. “He doesn’t know Spider-Man. He’s just trying to be  _ friendly. _ ” 

She said the word as if it were dirty, and Peter immediately understood she meant something very different by it. Something sinister, something disgusting. Colin had understood it too. He fell silent, looked away from Peter and back at his tablet to stare at his screen, though Peter noticed he didn’t appear to be interested in returning to his game 

Peter’s eyes drifted towards the window, towards the flickering street lights outside, losing their battle, dying out, it seemed, one by one. He wondered whose job it was to keep the city lights going at night, and wondered if he could make it part of Spider-Man’s job, since whoever it was who was charged with it wasn’t bothered. 

*

“Got a room free?”

He sat his basket filled with freshly washed and dried clothes on the front does, and waited while the clerk popped the headphones out of her ears. 

“How many nights?” she asked him, voice bored, staring at her computer screen. 

Peter forked over enough cash for a single night, thanked the clerk, and took himself, his laundry basket, and his overnight bag into the elevator. His room was a single, with one king sized bed with an ugly maroon, floral pattern comforter. 

Everything about the room was ugly. The walls, with the stains, and the carpet, with more stains, all of them reminding Peter why he absolutely hated the nights he spent in random motel rooms. 

It was a necessary evil. 

Of all the modern improvements he had made around the Spidey lair over the years, he still hadn’t managed to figure out how to install running water.  Motels were his solution to long, hot showers that weren’t in a public gym, or an answer on the nights he craved rest on a solid bed.

Though he loved his hammock weaved from webs, sometimes, sometimes Peter just needed something a little bit lower to the ground. 

But then there was the other thing, the whole, leaving a stockpile of alien tech unattended thing. 

Not the best, sure, but Peter was confident in the security system he built, from that same alien tech, to protect his home and his lair and his alien weapon stockpile. He didn’t feel great about leaving it, especially after the dumpster incident, but then again, these days, Peter didn’t really feel great about anything. 

He stripped his clothes and slipped into the shower, letting the hot water bleed into his skin. He turned up the heat until he could barely handle it, and hoped it might douse and pierce and kill all the bad parts of him, though he knew it wouldn’t. Water was water. Only magical in the fairy tales Peter had stopped believing in when he was Colin’s age. 

Once he was clean, on the outside, he dried off and searched through stacks of folded clothes in the laundry basket, not stopping until he found a pair of sweatpants, boxers, and the AD/DC shirt he’d stolen from Target.

He put them on, and wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror, revealing a face he didn’t like to stare at, eyes that became a little less recognizable every time he saw them. 

He blinked, and shook his head, and left the mirror and the bathroom behind in favor of the questionable bed, where he plopped down and switched on the TV and pulled a brown fast food bag from his book bag. 

“Nothing like cold cheeseburgers,” he murmured to himself, before unwrapping the burger from the tinfoil, and averting his attention to TV. 

A news anchor described the latest threat to New York, and apparently it was Peter. Toomes, really, and all the illegal alien tech. 

Numbers flashed across the bottom of the screen. A tip line. 

Panic flared in his chest and stopped Peter from munching on his burger as he imagined clients or witnesses reaching for their phones. He realized, stupidly, for the first time, that it wouldn’t be Toomes’ face that would be described to investigators and sketch artists and probably the Avengers.

It’d be Peter Parker’s. 

*

He slid a pair of sunglasses over his eyes and stepped out onto the street, out of the Spidey lair and into the sunlight. It had just been a quick pitstop, to drop off all his things after his stay in the motel, before starting towards the nearest Target for a quick shop. 

A walk wouldn’t feel right without his headphones, so popped the buds in his ears and connected them to his phone. He fumbled his thumb around on the touch screen, searching for the correct song, and walked straight into someone else on the sidewalk. 

“Oh, sorry man, I wasn’t watching -” Peter stopped his apology short when he made eye contact with Clint Barton, who was stepping back and brushing off his shirt and hitting Peter with a strange stare. 

Clint squinted. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“No,” said Peter, too fast. “I don’t really see how that would be possible.” 

_ Just be cool. Just be cool. _ It was the mantra he tried to keep, even as the panic screamed in his head that it was the opposite of cool. Avengers this close to his lair, Avengers this close to stumbling onto Peter’s stockpile of twice stolen alien tech. 

“Are you okay?” asked Clint. “It looks like you’re bugging out over there.” 

“I’m fine,” said Peter. “I just, umm, normally don’t really see Avengers walking around, so yeah, I’m just going to-”

“Hey Clint.” Captain America cut him off, and walked out of a nearby shop. Wearing completely regular clothes, he almost looked normal, though Peter still recognized the threat underneath. 

“They said they had the surveillance footage -” he stopped short when he spotted Peter, an eavesdropper to whatever unimportant Avenger’s business they had in these parts of Queens. 

“Doesn’t he remind you of someone?” asked Clint, looking back and forth between Peter and Steve.

“No…”

“Maybe it’s the voice.”

“Look,” said Peter. He checked his watch, and staged a show, pretending to be in a rush. “I’m gonna be late. So, uh, sorry for running into you, and thanks for… avenging things, I guess.” 

He bolted before they had the chance to get him talking in circles. 

Peter turned into an alley, and waited, strained his ears in an attempt to focus his super hearing on Steve and Clint’s conversation. 

“....so that was Spider-Man right, under those Tony-looking sunglasses…”

“Shit,” he whispered. He didn’t know which one he found more distressing, the comment about Spider-Man or the comparison to Tony Stark. 

“I don’t know,” said Steve. “Seemed jumpy, though, didn’t he? Maybe he’s Spider-Man, or maybe he knows something about these weapons.” 

“Or it’s both.”

“Nat’s theory,” said Steve. “Should’ve known. Her and Tony, always got to be right.” 

“Like their egos need it,” said Clint. “Let’s tail him. See where he goes.” 

Peter climbed up the building he had hid behind, jumped on the roof, and laid down flat, hoping no one had seen him climbing without his mask, and hoping Steve and Clint would remain clueless as to where he hid. 

He listened to the sound of their feet hitting pavement, until they stopped, and from the sound of their heartbeats, Peter guessed they were right below him.

“He’s long gone by now,” said Steve. “But the shop owner said his security feed reaches into the street. Maybe we can get an ID and an address that way.” 

Peter closed his eyes, and let go of another long, exasperated breath. 

He wished to be anywhere else, and wished to be anyone else. Maybe someone powerful enough not to be pushed around by Toomes, or hunted this way by the Avengers. Wished that if he had to be hunted, that he’d at least be strong enough to fight instead of hide. 

That black space sludge surfaced in his memory, or rather the way his Spidey senses buzzed and worshiped at it’s undeniable, dangerous and raw potential. Without a doubt, Peter would give anything to possess that kind of power. He’d do anything. 

*

Peter filled his cart with toys, anything and everything he thought a seven-year-old might like, all while ruminating on his impending doom. Stealing toys from Target might be the last great act of Spider-Man. It might be his last mission, if the Avengers truly knew he was involved with Toomes and they were able to discover his name. 

He pulled a Spider-Man action figure down from the shelf, and stared at it. 

He’d been filled with pride, years ago, when he’d walked past the window of a toy shop and saw the display of real life superhero action figures. Spider-Man was among the Avengers, and a bestseller, according to the cashier inside. 

Peter put the toy back on the shelf.

Kids like Colin wouldn’t want someone like Spider-Man in their collection of superheroes, not after the person under the mask was revealed. 

Instead he maneuvered the cart to the book section, grabbed a few of his old favorites, then headed towards the door.

Petty theft was easy, and rarely went anything south of smooth. He simply wheeled the cart out the double, automatic doors, relying on the signal jammers he’d built and carried in his pockets to power down the alarms and temporarily disable the cameras. 

Riskier than that was suiting up as Spider-Man again. 

The Avengers knew what they knew, and he almost certainly had a target on his back, but it had to be done. He had presents to deliver. 

After doing a god-awful job at wrapping them, he put them in a sack and yanked his mask down over his head. Peter swung to that apartment building across the street from the laundry mat, used his super-powered hearing to find the correct apartment, then worked quickly to stack them. 

He left a note on top of the pile, and signed it from the friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man. 

It was a band-aid. It wouldn’t fix anything for Callie and Colin, but it’d buy Peter some time to think of a real solution to their very real problem. An issue he was determined to return to, once he was stronger and more capable. 

*

Peter heard the sound of Iron Man’s repulsor beams from miles away. 

He listened to him flying nearer, but he stayed seated on the rooftop of an office building. He had lost the energy to panic, or to run, and felt resigned to this fate, whatever it was, whatever reason Iron Man was seeking him out, though Peter thought he had a pretty good idea about why. 

Iron Man landed behind him, and still, Peter didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge that he noticed his presence at all. He kept his stare ahead, at the disappearing sun. 

“Funny story,” said Iron Man, as he lowered himself down, and sat next to Peter. He threw his legs over the side of the building, letting them dangle next to Peter’s, who was a little bothered that his feet didn’t reach as far down as Iron Man’s. “We found our missing spaceship chunks.” 

“Oh,” said Peter. “Drained the Hudson?” 

“Didn’t have to,” said Iron Man. “They were found, left out in the open, on a street in Queens.” 

“Weird.” 

“Yeah, weird,” said Iron Man. His faceplate disappeared, and Peter was left gawking at Tony Stark. Worry and concern were etched into every line on the man’s face. He did a great job pretending. “If you have something you wanna tell me, now would be a good time, kid.” 

“I think kid is probably the least annoying nickname you’ve given me.” 

Tony frowned at him, but otherwise his expression was left unchanged, and Peter had to look away. 

“Actually, there is something,” said Peter, clasping his hands and interlocking his fingers together. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that suit you wore on the cover of Time. I don’t really know if you’re up for constructive criticism, but I think I could help you out.” 

“That style is very in right now,” said Tony, momentarily offended, until he shook it away. “And I’m not able to take fashion advice from the  _ kid _ who jumps around Queens in spandex, especially when he’s about to be trading it in and rocking prison chic.” 

“And it’d still look way better than that suit.” 

“Ok,” said Tony. “I think you need a reality check, so here it is. When you’re caught with these weapons, and  _ you will be caught _ , they will locked up you, and thanks to your super freaky spider powers, they’ll send you to the Raft, which is -”

“I know what the Raft is.” 

It was a prison that existed in murmurs and whispers around the streets, and sometimes, within Toomes’ warehouse. Once it had existed in the press, right after that Osborn kid lost his damn mind and started terrorizing people on a hoverboard while calling himself the Green Goblin. 

“Then you know you don’t want to go there,” said Tony. “Hell, I don’t want you ending up there.” 

“Why would you even care?” asked Peter. “We don’t even really know each other.”

“I know you better than you think, for example, I know you don’t really want anybody getting hurt. You don’t even like what you’re doing. You’re just some dumb kid in over his head…” Tony let his voice trail out, and Peter thought he might have something more to add, but instead he asked, “how am I doing so far?” 

“Wrong. I’m not a kid,” said Peter. He swallowed, and ignored the rest of it, shook by how accurate it had been. “I’m eighteen today… it’s my birthday.” 

It came out like a confession, even if he hadn’t meant it that way. More like something he needed to put out there in the world, so someone besides some seven-year-old would know. 

And maybe it was something else, too. Maybe it was a peace offering, or maybe it was just a ploy to temporarily halt a conversation Peter wished weren’t happening. 

“Happy birthday,” said Tony, then released a weary, worried sigh. “Don’t know how to break it to you, but that doesn’t make you un-kid.” 

“Un-kid?” 

“It’s a word. I made it up, and I’m sticking to it.” 

“It’s a lousy word.” 

“And yet, it perfectly describes you,” said Tony. “And wrong isn’t completely wrong, right?” 

Peter didn’t say anything, hadn’t expected the conversation to return to dangerous places so soon.

“Look, Spidey, it’s obvious you’re in way over your head, but it doesn’t have to be like that,” said Tony. “I can help you. We can make a deal.”

“You want me to name names.” 

“For starters,” he confirmed. “We’ll need a location, too.” 

“I can’t do that.”

Peter didn’t believe in snitching, especially on people like Toomes, who had at least treated him better than any foster parent ever had. Besides, snitching on him would affect more than just Toomes.

He pictured Liz losing her tuition and her spot at MIT. He just couldn’t do that to her. 

“Give us names,” Tony repeated. As if he hadn’t heard what Peter had just told him. “And a location. SHIELD will let you off easy.” 

“I can’t do that, because I don’t know,” said Peter, even though they both knew that he did. “I’m not involved in whatever alien weapon scheme you think I am. Appreciate the vote of confidence, though.” 

Tony stared at him for what felt like an eternity, before pulling himself to his feet and hovering over him. “Take some time. Think about it. You know where to find me.” 

He blasted away, and left Peter alone on the rooftop, pondering the sunset on the New York City skyline and wondering how many more of them he’d be able to witness as a free spider. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading <3
> 
> updates may be slower than I originally thought they'd be, some irl stuff happened and you know how it goes. anyways this is no longer part of febuwhump and might drag into February a bit!! 
> 
> kudos and comments let me know what you think!!! pleeasseeee 
> 
> [scream at me on tumblr](https://hailing-stars.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! <3 
> 
> updates will be random, but this is technically my first febuwhump post, so the last chapter will, for sure, but posted on the first of February!! 
> 
> comments and/or kudos let me know what you think 
> 
> [come yell at me on tumblr](https://hailing-stars.tumblr.com)


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